Middle age happens so suddenly. The future is infinite until one day, it is not. The first time someone called me middle-aged, I scoffed.
You are middle-aged
No I'm not!
Yes you are. You're over forty. Do you think you'll live until eighty- something?
Hmm. He had a point. I don't intend to live past eighty, and if I do, it will be an accident.
But despite the logic of numbers and average human lifespan presented to me, I did not consider myself middle-aged. The symptoms against which middle-agedness is gauged (in my society) such as physical decline, irrational desires to tick off bucket-list items (compete in marathons, write a book, adopt unflattering hairstyles) and an increasing observation that everyone seems really young all happened and are happening to me but I remained staunch in my refusal to be one of them.
The Middle Aged.
Those people.
Then Book Club happened. Book Club has been happening to me for the past few years. It is, perhaps, another sign of being Middle-Aged but I'll pretend that I didn't just say that.
Book Club asked all members to nominate a book for the next meeting. I hummed and hawed as I scanned the three shelves of books that are on my 'to read ' list. None of them seemed suitable. I looked at my list of notes where I write down book titles that seem interesting.
Nah.
I gazed at my shelves and my notes. Then it hit me.
I will never read all the books I want to read before I die.
The list is too long. Some of the books I want to read, I don't even know that I want to read them because they haven't been written yet.
I realised that I no longer have the luxury of thinking, I'll read that some day. I'll get around to it. That the years I have left are not sufficient read all that I want.
It's a tragedy.
And just like that, I became Middle-Aged.
You are middle-aged
No I'm not!
Yes you are. You're over forty. Do you think you'll live until eighty- something?
Hmm. He had a point. I don't intend to live past eighty, and if I do, it will be an accident.
But despite the logic of numbers and average human lifespan presented to me, I did not consider myself middle-aged. The symptoms against which middle-agedness is gauged (in my society) such as physical decline, irrational desires to tick off bucket-list items (compete in marathons, write a book, adopt unflattering hairstyles) and an increasing observation that everyone seems really young all happened and are happening to me but I remained staunch in my refusal to be one of them.
The Middle Aged.
Those people.
Then Book Club happened. Book Club has been happening to me for the past few years. It is, perhaps, another sign of being Middle-Aged but I'll pretend that I didn't just say that.
Book Club asked all members to nominate a book for the next meeting. I hummed and hawed as I scanned the three shelves of books that are on my 'to read ' list. None of them seemed suitable. I looked at my list of notes where I write down book titles that seem interesting.
Nah.
I gazed at my shelves and my notes. Then it hit me.
I will never read all the books I want to read before I die.
 |
| In my head, I am this age when reading |
 |
| In reality, I am closer to this age when reading |
The list is too long. Some of the books I want to read, I don't even know that I want to read them because they haven't been written yet.
I realised that I no longer have the luxury of thinking, I'll read that some day. I'll get around to it. That the years I have left are not sufficient read all that I want.
It's a tragedy.
And just like that, I became Middle-Aged.
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